The Murder of a Queen Bee

by Meera Lester

  “Huh.”

  Abby clicked off the call and looked up. Jack stood in the cafeteria doorway, motioning for her to join him. “Hurry. They say we can see Tom now.”

  The ICU sounded like a brooder room of peeping chicks, with sounds seemingly chirping from every machine. Fully awake but looking exhausted from his ordeal, Tom rested against pillows in white cases, his hand shaking as he tried to scratch an area on one side of his whiskered cheek, beneath the green oxygen mask.

  Abby assumed his skin must itch where the tape had anchored the intubation tube in his mouth to the respirator hose.

  Jack said cheerfully, “Glad to see you decided to stick around, bro.”

  Tom managed a feeble grin.

  Abby thought he looked like an elf, with his pointed ears and toffee-colored, curly hair. “Did you get a good look at who shot you?” Abby asked pointedly.

  Tom shook his head.

  She pressed on. “So you don’t know if it was a man or a woman on that motorcycle?”

  Tom stared at her. “No,” he said huskily. His eyelids floated down and then sharply jerked up again. He seemed to struggle to stay awake. He licked his pale, dry lips.

  Jack picked up a glass of water with a straw in it and shot a look at Abby, as if to say, “Save the interrogation for later.” He helped Tom lift the oxygen mask and pinched the straw closer to Tom’s lips. “You know, the landlord offered me a month-to-month lease on the cottage. You’ll need a safe place to mend, and I could use help liquidating the store merchandise.” His voice had the reassuring tone of an older brother counseling his young sibling. “Unless you would rather be a shopkeeper.”

  Tom finished his sip of water and adjusted the mask. “Fiona would’ve liked that,” he said, his voice cracking.

  The poignancy of Jack’s offer suggested to Abby that he had a tender regard for this man who had married his sister. If Tom stayed around to run Ancient Wisdom Botanicals, it would be the new life Fiona had envisioned for him. But it remained to be seen which choice Tom would make. His entrenchment in the commune’s cultish life suggested he’d been brainwashed. Perhaps Fiona had understood that better than anyone and had been pressuring Tom more prior to her death. Her confession of love for Tom in her journals and her desire to have a child with him had to make her untimely passing all the more difficult for Tom to bear. But maybe now Tom’s life would radically change.

  Suddenly, as if someone had stroked her bare arm with a feather, Abby snapped out of her reverie. Her grandmother Rose might have reminded her that unseen presences had a way of making themselves known. Abby looked at Tom, who stared across the room, as if seeing what couldn’t be seen. Just then, a nurse popped in.

  “How’s the pain?” she asked.

  “Hurts . . . bad,” said Tom. Small beads of sweat had emerged across his forehead.

  “The doctor has ordered something to help with that. I’ll be right back.”

  Abby placed her hand over Tom’s. “You deserve a rich and full life. Fiona wanted that for you. Not this. Get well soon, so you can get on with it.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Jack, setting the glass back on the bedside table. “There’s a couch in the cottage with your name on it. I’m heading back there now, and I’ll let the landlord know that we’re thinking about signing that month-to-month lease. What do you say?”

  Tom nodded.

  Abby followed Jack into the hallway. “It’s a start,” she said.

  “Yes, it is.” Jack gazed into her eyes. “I can’t thank you enough for coming. When will I see you again?”

  She smiled and, with a toss of her head, said, “Soon, I hope.” His expression dimmed, compelling Abby to reach out for his hand. “I hope you know I mean that, Jack.”

  He brightened and nodded.

  * * *

  Abby stopped by the post office to retrieve her business mail from the box and dropped by the feed store for a bag of scratch grains before returning to the farmette at a little past noon. She felt fully prepared for a face-off with Clay, but his truck wasn’t in the driveway. Her heart’s heaviness lifted with the realization that she would have some time to enjoy her sanctuary before the showdown with him.

  Kneeling to hug Sugar in the backyard, she said, “I’ve missed you, sweetie. Did you miss me?” The dog backed up and whined, as if directly addressing Abby’s question with an affirmative reply.

  Abby checked on the chickens and then the bees. Inside the house, the weariness of the past twenty-four hours settled heavily on her, like a hefty woolen quilt. She longed to dive into the bed for a nap but decided to check out the master bath first. The two large windows were locked in. The tub had been set in place, along with the faucet and showerhead. The lights and switch worked, as did the fan. An old-world vanity, with its single sink set into a marble top and storage for linens behind the large doors at the bottom, lent an air of elegance to the room. But when Abby gazed out the double windows above the spa tub, her breath caught in her throat.

  “Oh . . . my. I can sit in this tub with a glass of wine and feel the spa jets massaging my aching muscles . . . all the while gazing up at the ranch owned by that fine-looking Lucas Crawford. What irony. If this isn’t the mother of all gifts, I don’t know what is.”

  * * *

  Around four o’clock Abby awoke from a cat nap, oddly craving chocolate mousse, but all she could do was think about it; she surely didn’t have the energy to make it. Truth be told, she didn’t have much energy for anything. She had to push herself to get up, do a basket of laundry, water the plants, eat a small meal, and lock the chickens in for the night. Clay still hadn’t called or texted. Maybe he was nursing a wounded ego or just wanted time away from the farmette. Whatever the reason for his absence, Abby vowed to rave about the fine job he’d done with the bathroom when he returned. Around midnight, she decided to call it a day. She showered, slipped into a pair of silk pajamas, and crawled between the cool sheets. She reached out to feel Sugar’s soft, warm body next to her. Sleep soon overtook them both.

  A gunshot rang out. Beside her bed, the glass window shattered. Startled into wakefulness, Abby dove to the floor. Her senses went on high alert. Her pulse throbbed. Sugar yipped at a deafening pitch. Trying to gather her wits about her, Abby reached up for the knob on the bedside table drawer. Pulled the drawer open. Her fingers stretched to touch the Ruger LCP 380 semiautomatic pistol. She removed the gun and cartridge. Even in the dark, she knew how to load it.

  “Shhh, sweetie. Shhh. Quiet.” Abby stroked the quivering, whimpering dog. She strained to make out the sounds outside, determine the direction of the shot. “It’s okay,” she whispered to the dog. “All okay, sweetie. No worries.”

  But Abby knew it wasn’t okay; she was worried. To call for help, she needed her phone. Abby’s heart pounded like that of a thoroughbred entering the final stretch in a horse race. Her situation was dire. She had no backup and no partner. First rule of survival: stay calm, clearheaded, and focused. The daypack was on the bed, but she didn’t know which direction the shot had come from. Could the shooter see her? Detect movement? Had she locked the house? A shiver shot up her spine. In a split second, she needed to lock the back door, find her phone, and call for help.

  “Come, Sugar.” She prayed the dog would follow her. “Let’s go, sweetie.” Cautiously, she inched over the shards and reached the hallway without cutting herself. And then . . . the kitchen. The dog sat on her haunches at the end of the hall, quiet and still. “Stay,” Abby commanded as she crawled into the kitchen.

  Easing up to a squat, Abby then rose and flattened her body against the wall. Like a silent shadow, she moved past the refrigerator, washer, and dryer until she reached the slider. She realized she had only partially closed the vertical blinds. Too late now. She searched for movement in the blackness beyond the door. Back by the henhouse, she saw a flash of light, like a match to a cigarette . . . and then it was gone.

  Feeling for the door latch, she located the met
al tab and plunged it down into the locked position. Inhaling and slowly letting the breath go, she crept along the wall to the safety of the hallway where Sugar was waiting. “Good girl.”

  Now to get the phone. Abby crept into the bedroom. Keeping her body below the bed frame, she stroked her hand along the top of the mattress, feeling for the daypack. When her fingers touched the rough canvas of the pack, she pinched it and pulled the pack toward her. With the pack on the floor, she remained quiet for a millisecond, listening. The stillness of the night drilled on in her ears like a high-pitched whine from electrical wires. Had the shooter finished his smoke?

  Crawling back into the hallway, Abby pulled the zipper across its slide and opened the pack. She pulled out the phone. Pushed the button on the side. The green screen lit up with the time, 3:30 a.m. Abby tapped the icon for contacts and then the entry for police dispatch.

  “What’s your emergency?” the female dispatcher asked when the call connected.

  “Attempted one-eighty-seven,” Abby whispered as loud as she dared. “Two shots. Fired at me through my bedroom window.”

  “Is the shooter still there?”

  “Think so. Yes.”

  “Your address?”

  “Henny Penny Farmette on Farm Hill Road.”

  “Your name?”

  “Abigail Mackenzie.”

  “Stay on the line with me.”

  Abby assumed that the dispatcher was sending the message out to all cruisers and emergency vehicles in the area.

  “Are you in a safe place?” the dispatcher asked.

  “Not really. The hallway.”

  “Can you safely get to a room with a locking door?”

  “Will try.”

  “Police are on their way. Don’t hang up.”

  Abby moistened her lips. “Okay. I know the drill.”

  With her gun in one hand and the phone in the other, Abby crawled on all fours down the hallway, with Sugar padding alongside. At the master bathroom, Abby abruptly stopped . . . listened. The patio slider lock jiggled. Her heart raced. In her head, alarm bells sounded. She had only a minute or two to hide somewhere. But where? She felt for the handles on the vanity double doors . . . then stopped. Even if I fit, Sugar won’t. Not an option.

  The assailant’s heavy footsteps clomped beyond the exterior of the broken bedroom window. Paused.

  Easy way in. Minutes . . . maybe seconds . . . all I’ve got, if that. Abby crawled from the master bath to the hallway’s small office area. Maybe we can hide under the desk. She inched forward. Found the desk but was blocked by a large cardboard box. Then it dawned on her. The bathtub box. If it held the tub . . . Abby felt for the lid. Lifted it. Laid the phone inside. She hoisted up Sugar, set her inside, and then crawled in.

  A loud thud at the front of the house told Abby the intruder had walked on past the broken window to check the front door. He had knocked over a metal chair on the porch. But why hadn’t he used the broken window? Maybe worried about getting cut, leaving blood at the scene. Maybe this wasn’t some amateur shooter?

  Abby hugged Sugar in a one-arm hold. She reached up and closed the box lid. Pointing the gun straight up, she waited, ready. If the killer lifted that lid, she would shoot. Period. Sugar stopped panting long enough to lick Abby’s bare forearm.

  Anxiety. We’re both feeling it. Abby heard the lock and the knob on the front door being twisted. Nausea swept through her. The lump in her throat couldn’t be swallowed. Her pulse pounded. Holding Sugar snug, Abby hoped she could muffle any bark against her bodice. All was quiet for a moment. Then . . . glass crashed again on the bedroom floor as pieces were kicked out from the window. So here he comes. Panic ran riot inside her. Abby’s sweaty palm quivered against the gun handle; her trigger finger trembled.

  The sound of a heavy foot landing on the floor . . . then the other foot made Sugar’s lean body tense. Glass crunched like ice shards crushed under a heavy roller. Sugar jerked her head at the sound.

  “No . . . no barking,” Abby whispered. She trained her focus on hearing the footsteps as they walked into the master bath. She heard something else.

  A faint siren sounded in the distance. Grew louder. The heavy footsteps returned to the bedroom. Crunched more glass. A man’s voice cursed as he banged the wall to scramble out the window. The siren screamed, as if only yards away. Gravel crunched under tire wheels. Rubber screeched to a halt. Abby lifted the box lid. A brilliant light flashed on outside. So the cops had turned on their searchlights. Abby exhaled through pursed lips. Let the weight of the gun relax against her chest.

  “Police are here,” she told the dispatcher before laying aside the phone.

  More sirens screamed as another emergency vehicle arrived, and pandemonium ensued. She heard multiple voices shouting. “Drop the gun. Drop the gun. Hands up. On the ground. Spread ’em.”

  Abby helped Sugar out of the box and then climbed out herself. She put her gun back into the drawer. Slipped a robe over her pajamas and hurried to the front entrance of her farmhouse. Abby took Sugar’s panting as a level of high anxiety, but what could she do to assuage the dog while chaos was still going on? She flipped on the indoor and outside lights and saw the suspect being placed in the backseat of the cruiser at the front of her property.

  “You okay?” an officer called out to Abby through the screen door she’d opened.

  “I am now,” she said, stepping into the pink flip-flops she kept on the front porch. “Heck of a quick response. Where were you? On a stakeout at the pancake house at the end of Farm Hill Road?” she teased.

  The cop grinned. “Something like that.”

  “I want to see him . . . the idiot who shot out my window.”

  The officer led her to the cruiser and opened the door. Dak Harmon, hands cuffed behind his back, glared at her.

  “Know him?” asked the officer.

  Abby’s stomach churned. She had the urge to throw up. She swallowed. “Yes. That’s Dak Harmon. Did you find the gun he used?”

  “Sure did. Did he assault you, ma’am?” The officer added, “Physically, I mean.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “That is bruising around your eye, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, this,” Abby said, touching her eye. “Yes, well, he did do this, but not tonight. That’s a whole other story.”

  Diverting their attention, a young rookie cop walked through Abby’s side gate from the backyard to the front driveway. “Sarge, there’s an older-model Harley parked on the other side of the property, behind the chicken coop. The motorcycle engine is still warm,” he said. “And there is a blood trail, indicating the suspect was heading away from her house in that direction.”

  Abby locked eyes with Dak, who glowered back at her. “So,” Abby said, “the commune kicks out the smart people and keeps the Neanderthals.” Addressing the senior officer, she said, “Take him away.”

  The officer slammed the cruiser door, tapped the hood, and the cruiser pulled away.

  Abby walked back to the front door and waited until the sergeant had finished speaking to his rookie. Then she escorted the senior officer into the bedroom to show him the window damage. Pointing to the blood on the sill, she said, “He couldn’t shoot me, so I guess he thought he’d come through the window and finish me off. Stupid lout would leave his DNA all over the place.”

  “We’ll need your statement,” said the police officer.

  “And I’m ready to give it,” said Abby, “but what’s the chance that you might share with me the license plate of the motorcycle he was riding?”

  Chocolate Mint Mousse

  Ingredients:

  ½ cup bittersweet chocolate chips

  3 tablespoons strong coffee

  1 tablespoon kirsch, Kahlúa, or brandy

  4 large eggs, at room temperature, separated (preferably

  organic eggs from free-range chickens1)

  ⅔ cup granulated sugar

  ¾ cup heavy cream

  ½ teaspoon finely minced f
resh chocolate mint, plus

  4 sprigs, for garnish

  Directions:

  Combine the chocolate chips, coffee, and kirsch in a double boiler or a medium saucepan and cook over low heat, stirring continuously, until the chocolate has melted and the texture is smooth and even. Remove from the heat.

  Separate the eggs, placing the yolks in a small bowl and the whites in a medium bowl.

  Whisk together the egg yolks, sugar, and the minced mint and then fold the yolks into the melted chocolate mixture. Whip the cream until firm peaks are formed. Spoon the whipped cream into the chocolate and then gently fold in using a rubber spatula.

  Beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form. Gently fold the beaten egg whites into the chocolate mixture. Spoon the mousse into dessert cups or ramekins and chill, covered, in the refrigerator for 4 hours or overnight until the mousse sets. Garnish each cup with a sprig of mint, fresh raspberries, or shavings of white chocolate and serve.

  Serves 4

  Chapter 18

  A pawful of honey could mean the wrathful

  sting of a thousand bees.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  By the time the police had collected all the evidence, had removed the crime-scene tape, and had given Abby permission to clean up the broken glass littering her bedroom floor, the sun had left the eastern-facing windows. Breakfast and lunch had come and gone. The cops had pried a bullet from the wall and had bagged and tagged the shell casings. They had arrested Dak Harmon and carted him off to jail. With the gun seized as evidence and the motorcycle impounded, the case against the bodyguard strengthened.

  Abby rested in her grandmother’s rocker on the patio, sipping from a mug of iced coffee, glad the ordeal was over. She listened to the songbirds’ cacophony and watched Sugar’s tail wag where it stuck out of the lavender thicket.

  “I’ll bet you slept better than I did,” Clay called out to her as he rounded the house to reach the patio. He looked like he had come from an all-night party and needed only a shave and a comb-through to restore his sexy good looks.